Affairs Of State (Power & Passion #2)

Prologue

Charlotte

“Alright, we’re almost there. Stay alert and keep an eye out for anything unusual.” One of my security team spoke. “I’ll handle the clearance at the gate. Let’s make sure we follow protocol to the letter.”

The leather seat beneath me felt cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the tinted windows of the SUV.

I stared at the back of the two men seated in front, their black suits sharp and severe, their heads tilted slightly as they spoke in low tones over the comms. My security detail, also known as my shadows from this day forward.

I couldn’t focus on their conversation. My pulse was a steady thrum in my ears, a rhythm that matched the slow crawl of New York City traffic.

The UN building loomed in the distance now, its imposing silhouette growing larger with every inch we moved closer.

My stomach clenched. Nervousness? That couldn’t be right.

I wasn’t someone who got nervous. I was a Tyler, for heaven’s sake.

I shut my eyes, trying to steady myself, and found my mind drifting back home to Sherwood Forest. The ancestral plantation had stood for nearly two centuries, its hallways filled with portraits of the family who’d shaped its legacy.

My legacy. I could see President John Tyler’s stern gaze from his oil-painted eyes, his expression both familiar and distant.

His face always seemed to ask, Are you doing enough to honor the name?

Today, that question felt heavier than ever.

The SUV slowed to a stop, jerking me back to the present.

My eyes flew open, and I caught the driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Ma’am, we’re here,” he said, his tone professional but kind.

One of the security agents opened his door and stepped out, scanning the surroundings with practiced precision.

The other turned slightly, his gaze flicking to me.

“Ambassador Tyler,” he said, his voice firm but laced with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

I managed a tight smile, one I hoped masked the storm of emotions churning inside me.

“Thank you, I’m fine.” My voice was steadier than I felt.

I straightened my blazer and smoothed a hand over the skirt of my navy sheath dress, a practiced gesture of composure.

The door beside me opened, and I stepped out, the heels of my pumps clicking against the pavement.

The air outside was brisk, a biting contrast to the warmth of the SUV.

My security detail flanked me as they guided me toward the entrance reserved for diplomats.

The scene was a whirlwind—ambassadors and their entourages, assistants juggling paperwork, voices mingling in a cacophony of languages.

Despite the chaos, the building ahead loomed serene, a testament to order amid the world’s disarray.

We hadn’t made it far before a man with a camera leapt into my path, his lens snapping rapidly.

“Ambassador Tyler!” he called out, his voice loud enough to draw attention. I tensed as my security detail moved in, one agent stepping between us, his hand outstretched to block the photographer. The man shouted something that made my stomach twist in disgust before the agent pushed him back.

“You’re the best-looking ambassador we’ve ever had!”

I stiffened, my lips pressing into a thin line.

Not the first time, and certainly not the last. Years of academic excellence, countless hours in negotiation rooms, and this was the headline I’d inspire—a remark on my appearance, as if that were my most significant credential.

A graduate of UVA, a Yale Law alum, and a specialist in Russian and Eastern European affairs, yet to some, I was reduced to how well I filled out a dress.

“Keep moving,” one agent said, his voice a low murmur meant for me alone.

I nodded, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

As we approached the security checkpoint, I caught my reflection in the glass doors.

My back was straight, head held high, my lips curved into a faint, polite smile—the picture of composure.

Inside, the controlled chaos of diplomacy awaited. The weight of history pressed on my shoulders, but I carried it as I always had. For my family. For my country. And, I hoped, for myself.

I’d earned this position, I thought to myself for possibly the thousandth time.

My academic achievements, my work with international coalitions, my strong negotiation skills—these had brought me here.

Still, the specter of my ancestors lingered in the back of my mind.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was constantly being measured against their accomplishments, their sacrifices, and their legacies.

My parents, too, loomed large in my thoughts.

They’d been instrumental in shaping my trajectory, instilling in me a sense of purpose and duty that had guided every decision I made.

But their absence now weighed heavily. How I wished they could see me at this moment, standing on the precipice of my new life.

The pressure to succeed in a role where every word I spoke could change the course of history felt insurmountable, but I refused to let it break me. This was my moment.

The closer I got to my office, the more overwhelming the magnitude of my role became.

The UN was a world unto itself—massive, intimidating, a place where alliances were made and broken in the blink of an eye.

As I walked through the corridors, I noticed the subtle gestures of respect and power exchanges between the ambassadors I passed.

Smiles were tight, politeness veiled suspicion, and every handshake held unspoken challenges.

I was a newcomer here, a relative unknown compared to the seasoned diplomats who’d navigated these halls for years. I would have to assimilate quickly, make my presence known without overstepping. It was a delicate balance to strike between asserting myself and maintaining diplomatic tact.

The enormity of the task ahead was almost too much to comprehend.

This was more than just representing the United States.

This was about shaping the future, about finding ways to break deadlocks and bring disparate nations together.

My colleagues would test me, challenge me, and ultimately, I would have to prove myself to the world.

But I was ready for that challenge?

The paperwork in front of me was dense, even by diplomatic standards.

Names, treaties, reports—all demanding my attention.

The sharp sound of my pen against the paper was the only noise in the room until a soft knock at the door broke the rhythm.

Jameson Walker, my chief of staff, stepped inside, his stride confident, as always.

His crisp suit seemed tailored to match the equally sharp expression he often wore.

“Mr. Walker,” I said, looking up from the document. I preferred formality in professional settings, and Jameson seemed like a man who appreciated boundaries.

“Jamie,” he corrected, his tone laced with a faint challenge, as if testing whether I would relent. I didn’t.

“What can I do for you?”

He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. “You have a visitor. Ambassador Mikhail Karpov. He’s here to see you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Karpov? On my first day? Without an appointment?”

Jameson nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That would be the one. Crafty old man, as you know. Should I send him away?”

The question was almost rhetorical. Sending away the Russian ambassador on my first day would hardly make for smooth diplomacy.

“Show him in,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Though I appreciate the reminder about his reputation. I’ve worked with him before, you know. Back in Moscow.”

Jameson’s expression didn’t change, but I could see a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. “Of course. Just be careful—he’s as devious as they come.”

I gave him a small smile. “Noted. Now, bring him in.”

He nodded curtly and disappeared, leaving me a few moments to prepare.

Karpov had always been an enigma to me. A former KGB officer—or so the rumors said—he was a man who wished the USSR had never crumbled.

He’d built his career on intimidation and force, relying on old-school methods of diplomacy that clashed with the softer skills I’d honed over the years.

That was his weakness, though, and one I intended to exploit.

When the door opened again, Karpov strode in, his presence as imposing as ever. He was lanky, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed, the cut of his suit as sharp as the glint in his icy gaze. His eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the weight of his scrutiny immediately.

“Ambassador Tyler,” he said, his voice deep and deliberate. Before I could rise or greet him properly, he sat down in the chair opposite me, making himself at home. Typical.

Jamie lingered by the door, waiting for my cue. Karpov turned his attention to him and waved dismissively. “You may leave us,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jamie hesitated, his gaze flicking to me. I gave him a small nod, though I couldn’t miss the warning in his eyes as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Karpov’s gaze returned to me, his lips curling into what I supposed was meant to be a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I wanted to greet you personally before politics comes between us,” he said. His words were smooth, but there was an edge to them, like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Congratulations on your new office.”

“That’s very… kind of you,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

He leaned back slightly, adjusting his cuffs as he began what I could only describe as a lecture on the state of US-Russian relations.

His voice droned on, filling the room with his monologue.

My initial urge was to cut him off. After all, we’d worked together before; he knew I didn’t need a history lesson.

But as he continued, I realized what this was: a subtle form of bullying.

He wanted to see if I’d snap, if I’d break under the weight of his words.

I forced myself to smile, nodding occasionally, letting him believe he was in control. It was a game I’d played before, and one I was prepared to win. The key was patience. Let him talk, let him posture. Sooner or later, he’d reveal the hand he was playing, and when he did, I’d be ready.

Karpov finished his lecture with a faint, self-satisfied smile. “And that, Ambassador, is why diplomacy must never become complacent. I trust you’ll remember that.”

I forced a pleasant smile, though my jaw ached from holding it in place. “Of course, Ambassador Karpov. Your perspective is enlightening, as always.”

He got to his feet, his movements deliberate and smooth, and extended his hand. I stood as well, taking it in a firm shake. His skin was cool and dry, like touching a snake. The thought made my stomach twist, but I maintained my composure, meeting his icy gaze without flinching.

“Until next time,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Until next time,” I echoed. As soon as he stepped out of my office, I let out a slow, measured breath, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.

I returned to my desk, settling back into the mountain of paperwork that awaited me. My pen hovered over a document when my secretary’s voice buzzed through the intercom.

“Ambassador, Ms. Ramirez is here to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

“Send her in,” I replied, setting my pen down. I straightened in my chair, bracing myself for whatever was coming next.

The door opened, and a woman entered—mid-thirties, poised, with a sharpness in her gaze that immediately struck me as competent.

“Ms. Ramirez, I presume,” I said, rising to shake her hand. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” She was my deputy chief of mission.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” she said, though her voice carried an undercurrent of anxiety. She sat across from me, smoothing her skirt, and took a deep breath before speaking.

“Ambassador,” she began, her tone grave, “I need to warn you about something.”

I raised an eyebrow, my attention sharpening. “Go on.”

“There’s a situation developing,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“A Russian dissident—someone Karpov and the Kremlin see as a threat—is causing major diplomatic ripples. The UN granted her asylum, and her message is spreading like wildfire. Karpov won’t sit back for long.

He’ll push for her silencing, and soon, this will explode into a crisis. You need to prepare yourself.”

A tightness gripped my chest as the weight of her words settled in. This was a situation that could spiral out of control in an instant. One misstep, and I’d be at the center of an international incident. The world’s eyes would be on me, dissecting my every move.

I leaned forward, my mind racing through potential strategies. “Who is this dissident?”